


Where madness sleeps

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Daddy Issues, an other problematic things, and trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone asked for a fic where Fëanor's sons see their father having a mental breakdown. <br/>I tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where madness sleeps

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mental illness

The smoke was still dark above the shores when Fëanor’s and his followers left Losgar. Finwë’s eldest son was leading the cortege, and he was followed closely by his own sons, Curufin beside him and glaring at his father from time to time.

They only had brought a few horses from Aman, including Fëanor’s stallion, and his son’s brave steeds. Ambarto’s horse, now deprived of his rider, was following Ambarrussa’s horse whose reins were in Maedhros’ hand. The remaining twin was unable to think, to walk, and standing on his horse was an exploit; nobody expected him to ride and follow easily, and that’s why Maedhros had decided to ride next to his little brother, and to help him guide his horse from his own mount.

In the dark, vast, and unknown lands, Fëanor had sent a few scouts, and Celegorm had insisted to go with them. A long minute of sheer hesitation had passed, and at last Fëanor had accepted. A nod had been given but no words had left his lips, and sternly he had turned away, heading to his own horse.  
Grateful but silent, Celegorm had chosen a few good hunters, his friends, and they had left the cortege silently.

Since that moment, no words had been spoken, only a few glances among the brothers, tears held back or hidden behind their trembling hands.

The smell of the smoke was slowly fading as they walked away, and in the dark, Fëanor’s eyes glimmered, piercing the shadows in front of him as if he could already see Morgoth. At least, that was the impression he gave, but beside him, Curufin could imagine the terrifying thoughts that were endlessly rolling in his father’s mind. He also knew that Fëanor would refuse any mention of it, and braving his own worry, Curufin remained quiet. His own regrets were sharp, biting, a deep wound in his soul, but as always he hid it well, an impassive mask on his face; How good he had become at this game, how easy it was to convince himself that there was nothing to say.

Many hours later - in this lightless land, it was impossible to tell how many hours- Celegorm and his friends came back unharmed and with only a few informations. Fëanor, probably noticing the miserable states of his sons and followers, decided to make a break, and everyone agreed silently.  
They wouldn’t stay here for long, there was no need for tents. Fire and a few blankets for those who wished to sleep, a frugal amount of food and a few quiet words shared in the dark. Nothing more.

From where he stood, Curufin observed his father. He watched him step away, and taking a sip from his flask, he joined his brothers, gathered in silence quite far from the firecamp. Ambarussa had decided to sit aside, alone, and none of them had forced him to join them, though they were all keeping an eye on him.

Glancing at Fëanor, Maedhros finally broke the silence. “We must do something for him. We can’t ignore it any longer.” There was no need to pronounce his name, they all knew he was talking about their father.

“Nobody is igoring it, Nelyo.” Caranthir’s voice replied, harsh and imaptient as always, and yet filled with a deep melancholy he barely managed to hide. “But what could we do?”  
“We cannot go on like this.” Maedhros continued, ignoring his little brother’s harsh tone. “He can’t go on like this. We can’t expect him to rule and to make wise decisions in this state.”

“And what do you propose?” Asked Celegorm, with a bitter laugh. “Perhaps Kano could play one of his sweet tunes to calm his nerves? Or maybe one of your brillant speeches, Nelyo, always so well thought and beautifully stated.”

Maedhros didn’t reply to the sarcasm, and instead, he turned his head, his eyes falling heavily on Curufin. “One of us must talk to him.” No one answered, but Curufin could already feel his other brothers’ gazes upon him. “Someone he trust more than anyone else.”

Another silence fell upon the Fëanorians, all of them waiting for Curufin to say something. But the fifth son of Fëanor took his time, his tongue rolling many times behind his lips before he finally answered. “Talking to him… believe me, that’s not what he needs.”

“No Curvo.” Maglor stated firmly. “That’s not what _you_ think _you_ need.”

“If you know better than I do what I need, then please brother, explain.” Curufin’s honeyed voice was all but kind, a bitter irony bathing each words that fell from his lips.  
Before Maglor could reply, and he was about to do so, a loud cry of rage and bitterness, of frustration and pain resounded behind them, and the five sons stood up instantly, their faces turning instincitvely towards their father. Ambarussa had barely reacted, as if he had expected the scream.

“…Is it not obvious?” Maglor continued, keeping his eyes on his father who was standing alone, fists clenched, his face turned towards the dark sky. “You must talk to him.”  
Forcing himself to look away, Curufin shook his heard. “I must see Tyelpe.”

But this time, it’s Celegorm who reacted, resting a comforting hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of your son. You talk to atar.” And with no more words he left them, joining the his nephew who had prefered to stay with the horses, as if the sweet heat of the beasts would provide any comfort.

A last desperate look Curufin gave towards Caranthir, but his brother didn’t seem inclined to second him, and with a loud sigh, Curufin resolved to follow his brother’s wish. Ambarusssa turned away from him, as he had done since… since the terrible moment, and Curufin faked to ignore it. Yet, his little brother’s pain, his hate and his anger were only digging deeper into his own wounds, reminding him of his madness, of his sick enthusiasm as he had prepared his torch, as he had followed his father to the ships and watched them burn.  
Again, Curufin shook his head, but this desperate move wouldn’t erase the memories, nor would it kill this biting guilt.

He stopped a few feet behind his father. Fëanor hadn’t moved, but his face was now turned to the ground and he was muttering words Curufin couldn’t catch.

“Fëanaro…?” Curufin had called his father by his name since the exile to Formenos, as a proof of his devotion, of his loyalty, beyond the bloodline. “Do you need anything? Some water maybe?”

Fëanor didn’t reply, but his mumble became louder and his head suddenly twitched to the right, as if a mosquito was harrassing him. But there was no mosquito, no fly, no insects except the ones that seemed to be eating Fëanor’s sanity.

“Fëanaro… I don’t understand what you’re saying. What is it?”  
Paying no attention to his son, Fëanor kept on mumbling, and it soon appeared to Curufin that he was talking to himself, or to someone that wasn’t here.

“Don’t… I can’t let them… He…. They. Gone.”

These were the only words Curufin managed to catch in his father’s speech, and they only increased his anxiety. Slowly, he stepped towards his father, and as carefully as he could he rested a hand on his shoulder. Yet, as soon as Fëanor felt the shy contact, he turned around, his dagger in his hand, and pressed the blade against his son’s throat. Curufin froze, eyes wide open on the elf before him who didn’t have his father’s face anymore. Fear bubbling in his stomach, he stared at Fëanor, his breath as sharp as the cold blade against his skin.

“Atar.” This time his voice was firm and direct, and Curufin looked his father strainght in the eye. “Atar, it’s me. Curufinwë, your son. I am no enemy.”  
Fëanor blinked, and slowly he seemed to understand, to come back, to recognize the Noldo in front of him. “Curufinwë…”  
His son nodded, and remaining still, he let his father move away, with trembling hands. When it was done, when Fëanor’s blade was back in it’s sheath, Curufin glanced at his brothers, still gathered in circle. They had witnessed the scene with dread and fear, except Ambarussa who was still lost in his own mind, unable to look at their father. Noticing their worry, Curufin moved his hand slowly, a peaceful sign to calm them, to make them understand it would be alright. It had to be alright and he, Fëanor’s favorite son, had to handle it.

Fëanor seemed to be completely lost, as if Curufin’s face was the only thing he could see, and gently, his son wrapped his fingers around his arm. “If you don’t need anything to eat or to drink, maybe we could walk together for a while.”  
Fëanor stared at his son, and it took many minutes - an eternity - before he understood the meaning of Curufin’s words. Frowning, he finally nodded and allowed his son to pull him away from the camp, under the worried gaze of his brothers.

None of them spoke for long, Curufin’s hand holding Fëanor tightly, afraid that he might fall or run away - or both - and after a long while, Fëanor stopped and turned to face his son, a sudden nervosity filling his eyes and his voice. “Where is Ambarussa?

The question wasn’t unexpected, and yet Curufin barely knew how to answer.”He’s in the camp with the other, Nelyo is taking care of him.”

“No!” Fëanor stated firmly, his gaze cold and stern. “Ambarto. Where is Ambarto.” Curufin’s heart stopped in his chest; Fëanor had always refused to use this name, and now… now that the meaning of this name had appeared so clearly, Fëanor was speaking as if his last son was still alive. “Is he safe?”

Agape, Curufin stared at his father, a painful weight on his chest, preventing him from breathing and turning each words into a bleeding lie. “Yes, atar… He is… He should be safe.”

“Good.” Fëanor nodded, and he looked down at the ground thougfhtfully. “That’s good. He must stay safe. I must protect him. I must protect you all.”

Unsure of what to respond to his father’s madness, Curufin decided to stay quiet, and he let go of his father’s arm, bringing his hands against his own chest, trying vainly to give himself some sort of countenance. But he was afraid now, and worried, the look in Fëanor’s eyes was so lost, so far away, and although Fëanor’s voice was calm, and his body apparenlty relaxed, the slight twitches of his face and the frown on his forehead betrayed his troubled mind.

When he talked again, the words coming out slowly, Fëanor seemed lost between a swirling madness and what appeared to be a deep lucidity, a mad perspicacity, and Curufin couldn’t tell if his father was realy talking to him, or to himself, or so some sort creature he was the only one to see.

“I made myself a promise. I-I said, I said I would protect my sons. ‘Keep them safe, Fëanaro’ I said to myself, ’You mustn’t bring any danger upon them’. That’s what I said to myself.”

Silently, Curufin observed his father, listened to his words, and so painfully he held back his tears. He couldn’t show any weakness, not now. His father was lost and he was the one sent to bring him back, But these words, these words were worse than the blade Fëanor had pressed against his throat.

“My sons… I’m glad Ambarto is safe. He mustn’t be harmed. Never. None of my sons. All safe. Do you understand?”  
Fëanor was staring at him, eyes wide open, waiting for a reply. Curufin had never seen this look upon his father’s face before; he looked young and tired at the same time, terribly innocent in his madness, and so awfully afraid. “Yes, atar…” At this point, he had completely forgotten his promise to call his father by his name. It seemed so vain, so useless. And that wasn’t what Fëanor needed now. “I understand.”

“My children are precious, and they must be protected.“ A deeper frown on his forehead, Fëanor stepped towards Curufin, his head tilted and his hands reaching forwards to grasp his son’s arms. “Do you understand?”

His eyes following Fëanor’s very movements, Curufin didn’t move away, and when his father slightly shook his arms, his grey eyes sinking into his own gaze, he nodded again. “I understand.”

“Your son.” Fëanor was looking away now, trembling lips barely articulating the words. “You must protect him. Did you promise yourself to protect him? Did you make this promise, Curvo?”

Curufin hadn’t expected him to say his name, and at this very moment, he realised his father was probably more lucid than he had ever been.

“Curvo, did you promise to protect your son?”

“I did, and I will protect him.” Curufin whispered, but his father wasn’t listening anymore, and already he was stepping away.

“I must protect them.”

His hand passing over his face, Curufin tried to calm his nerves, but his own hands were trembling now, and he clenched his fists as his father spoke again.

“Curufinwë.” The young Noldo was about to reply, but his father’s voice stopped him. “That is my name. Atar gave me that name.”

Now Curufin was feeling dizzy, sick, his head was spinning and he needed to turn away from his father; looking at him was becoming unbearable. Yet, ignoring his son’s reaction, Fëanor continued. “Finwë… Curufinwë… Nelyafinwë… Kanafinwë…”

Curufin only wanted to run away, to hide under the earth and stay there until his father’s sanity would came back. Because it would come back. It had to come back.

“Turcafinwë… Morifinwë… Curufinwë… Pityafinwë…. Telufinwë…”

“Atar, please.” Curufin whispered, tears threatening in his eyes, still unable to look at Fëanor.

“…Curufinwë… And there’s is also Tyelperinquar. Brave, beautiful Tyelperinquar.”

“Atar, stop…” His voice was slowly getting louder, and after Fëanor had repeated the eight names again, like a chant, a litany, Curufin suddenly turned and shouted. “Atar enough!”

Fëanor jumped at the sudden cry, and he blinked, looking at Curufin as if he was seeing him for the first time. But little by little, the Noldo returned to a much more normal state, and Curufin saw again the face he was so used to see. A soft, sad smile appeared on Fëanor’s lips, and he walked to son. His steps were slow, and it seemed to Curufin that it took an eternity before hs father stood in front of him, his hands on his son’s shoulders and this melancholic smile still hung on his lips. Despite his effort to hold them back, a few tears rolled along Curufin’s cheeks, and carefully Fëanor wiped them off with his thumb, as he had done so many times, so long ago, when Curufin was but a child.

“You’re a good son, Curufinwë.” He stated in a whisper, his palm gently pressed against Curufin’s cheek. “A very good son.”  
And after a long sigh, Fëanor stepped away, heading to the camp, to his sons, and leaving Curufin alone with his thoughts and this bitter taste upon his tongue.


End file.
